An Ironman Who's Not Yet a Man

Jeannette, 45, who has completed five Ironmans, is monitoring the swim from the bank. Siblings Tyler, 13, and Morgan, 12, carry a hand-lettered sign urging their brother on.

From the outset, Hunter set a goal of winning the swim. Before the start he and his father survey the crowd until they identify the racer who won it in 2007. He becomes Hunter's target, and the teen keeps him in sight, drafting behind the front pack, until making his push for the lead as they near the final turns.

"This kid is 14! You heard me. He's just 14!" Vigorito announces as Hunter pops out of the water first and scampers into a tent to change into his biking gear.

He's not nearly as strong on the bike or run, so he downshifts the pace. Winning isn't the goal from this point on; finishing smart -- which means staying hydrated and replenishing his nutrients -- is.

After Hunter takes off on his bike, Jeannette, Tyler and Morgan head to their Chevy SUV. They'll creep along the route to check on his progress a few times during the 112-mile slog through the Blackwater National Wildlife Refuges, which is populated by egrets, deer, snakes and an occasional bald eagle.

A few miles into the course, the SUV pulls alongside Hunter, who's crouched over his handlebars and pedaling hard.

"I got stung so bad!" Hunter yells into the passenger side window at his mom, his neck red and raw from the brush with the jellyfish.

"Focus!" his mom yells back. "Eat! You've been on it an hour. Start eating now! Be careful! Focus! Focus!"

The family drives off as Taylor waves and shouts, "See ya!"

But apart from waving and cajoling, there's only so much Hunter's family can do for him. So Jeannette takes the children for a swim and lunch while Hunter presses on.

It's 2 p.m. and raining hard when the first wave of triathletes wheel into the high school parking lot, having cycled 112 miles -- roughly the distance from Washington to Richmond.

Vigorito has the speakers blaring to keep spirits up, with Bruce Springsteen wailing, "The highway's jammed with broken heroes on a last-chance power drive . . ." Some of the racers look broken indeed, as if permanently stuck in their aerodynamic crouch as they dismount their bikes, shoulders stooped, and hobble into a tent to slip into running gear. A marathon awaits.

Hunter's in about an hour later, greeted once again by Vigorito, who announces his name and improbable age.

"That kid's 14 years old?" one guy says to a buddy as they look on from a grassy patch under a tree. "What were you doing at 14?"

"That's amazing!" gushes his friend.

"That's sick!" says another, offering highest praise.

Hunter Lussi just keeps going, putting one rain-soaked sneaker in front of the other.

Nearly six hours later, he crosses the finish line. There are no fist-pumping histrionics. Nor does he stagger or gasp for air. Hunter Lussi just smiles -- big enough to flash those braces and a well-earned sense of satisfaction.

"You have to get your mind around the distance," he says when asked what was the hardest part of the day. "But no matter what, you just know, I can do this. I can do this!"